


your love feels like all four seasons

by warriorqueenclarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Beauty Is A Construct but also sex is fun, Body Image, Body Shaming, Body Worship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, also, coat rooms are public spaces right?, lotta Body stuff. including SEX YAHOO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorqueenclarke/pseuds/warriorqueenclarke
Summary: Clarke realises what Raven’s about to do just a split-second before she does it.“Is my friend hot?”Clarke chokes on nothing. “Raven-”“Come on, quickly, dude,” Raven says, snapping her fingers. The guy looks at Clarke appraisingly.“Yeah,” he says definitively.





	your love feels like all four seasons

**Author's Note:**

> uhhHh. this is a brain worm that worked its way up to being a Real Live fic. we're fine w it. it has sex and bellamy talkin about how hot clarke is, which is basically the central thing missing from the hundred atm so. also just to clarify - the lexa in this story doesn't necessarily reflect my perception of her character in the show. the role she plays in this fic fills a narrative purpose and echoes the actions of a particular Type of Person. also i think she has at times been tactless enough to make this characterisation at least partly believable.  
> in a similar vein, i recognise all the actors on this nightmare show are like completely conventionally attractive and there is absolutely privilege attached to that! however eliza has spoken abt Feeling Pressure To Be Thinner (which when u consider that she's always been on the thin side anyway.... it's nuts, hollywood is fucking nuts lmao) and just bc she does fit those conventions does not negate the existence of body image issues! however HOWEVER (x2) Feeling Fat is not the same as Being Fat, in terms of privilege and lived experience. this is a Nuanced Area Bayby. possibly too nuanced for me to give you my take in the notes of a fic that's at least 30% bellamy and clarke going down on each other.  
> oh also also - sex does not automatically solve body image issues lol. but sometimes intimacy with a partner u love and care for deeply can be a really helpful and positive way to build a better relationship w ur bod.

It starts because Raven gets her drunk, _of course_.

Clarke’s on the tailend of a fairly horrific break up with her longtime girlfriend, still sore and reeling from some of the things Lexa had said towards the end about Clarke not being ‘disciplined’, a jab at her ‘unacceptable’ gym habits, about ‘using self-love as an excuse for complacency’, and all of it culminating in Lexa claiming Clarke had ‘let herself go’, which -

Look. Clarke knows, realistically, she’s healthy, and she’s actually quite fit, fuck you very much, Lexa. She is also aware that she’s gained a little bit of weight, some of it muscle, since quitting med school (a life choice that was another of the many last straws for Lexa, apparently), mostly since she wasn’t overworked and mildly depressed anymore. She finally had time to eat properly and go out on the weekends and, well, _live her life_. She had barely even registered the fact that her body was changing, outside of a few pairs of jeans fitting her more snugly than before, until Lexa had started in with her Constructive Criticism, and now, sitting in a bar, having been dragged out by Raven after a week of moping, it’s all sort of coming to a head.

“Fuck her,” Raven’s saying. “She was just projecting her own shit onto you, Clarke, you know she has control issues. Nobody gets to talk to people that way.”

“She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Clarke says.

“No, what she did was twist seemingly innocuous comments into passive-aggressive negging,” Raven says, “AKA, what she always does.”

“She wasn’t that bad.”

“ _Clarke_.”

“Okay! We had issues. But I’m not gonna blame it all on her.”

Raven rolls her eyes in a way that just has to hurt her eye sockets. “Okay, fine, but I can.” Raven pauses. “She shouldn’t have said that shit, Clarke.”

Clarke stares into her drink and says nothing. It’s blue, and she doesn’t really want to finish it now that the churning has started up again in her stomach, but she downs it anyway. Man, she hates this.

“Okay, fuck it, this is ridiculous,” Raven says. She swivels her head around, searching for something. Clarke doesn’t quite register what’s happening until Raven’s tugging at the sleeve of some random passerby. “Hey, you.”

The guy turns, eyebrow quirking up, and - jesus. Okay. He’s really fucking hot, messy dark hair curling at the ends and freckles smattered over his nose and cheeks, deep brown eyes swimming with curiosity and confusion. And - well, she feels sort of hypocritical for even noticing, given the situation, but he’s wearing a tight white tee that proves he’s got no problem with discipline. She should introduce him to Lexa, she thinks bitterly. They can bond over their stupid commitment to jogging that she will _never_ fucking understand.

“Hi,” Raven says. Clarke’s still not sure what she’s playing at, but at this point, with both of them four drinks in and this guy as hot as he is, there’s no way it’s going to end with Clarke’s dignity intact. “So - can I ask you a question? Sort of a survey type thing? You have to answer honestly, first thing that comes to your mind.”

The guy’s face is blank, and then a small, amused smile appears on his face. “Uh, sure.”

Clarke realises what Raven’s about to do just a split-second before she does it.

“Is my friend hot?”

Clarke chokes on nothing. “ _Raven-_ ”

“Come on, quickly, dude,” Raven says, snapping her fingers. The guy looks at Clarke appraisingly.

“Yeah,” he says definitively. She’s never heard such a casual word sound so good, so _sure_ before, and it makes her cheeks flush a little, despite the circumstances.

“Okay, now-”

“Raven,” Clarke says sharply. She looks at the guy. “I’m so sorry, you really don’t have to do this, honestly.”

“Clarke, shut up,” Raven says. “And - good body, right?”

Clarke literally might self combust right there.

“Okay, obviously,” the guy says, going a little red. “But that’s definitely a trick question and I don’t get to decide what makes someone else’s body good, so. But yeah. She’s - yeah.”

“Cool, thanks,” Raven says.

The guy waits a beat, still standing there. He’s holding two drinks, Clarke realises, and she wonders who the second one is for. “Is there a specific reason for this random questioning?”

“Her ex is an asshole,” Raven says, “and I hate to resort to forcibly objectifying my best friend, but - the situation called for it.”

“Oh, did it, now,” Clarke says darkly.

“Yup,” Raven says brightly, hopping up to leave. “Now I’m gonna go scam the bartender for a free drink.”

Clarke thinks, idly, that tonight is the night. She’s really going to murder her best friend.

“Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or - well,” the guy says. “I probably did. So I’m sorry.”

“God, you don’t have to apologise to _me_ ,” Clarke says. “I’m just sorry she even dragged you into this. As if it even proves anything.”

The guy quirks an eyebrow again. God, that’s hot. “And why wouldn’t it?”

“Well, you can’t exactly say no,” Clarke says. “There’s no way of knowing if you’re telling the truth.”

“So, you’re saying I’m lying,” he says.

“Would you really tell a stranger, to their face, that they weren’t hot?”

The guy pauses. “Okay, no, but-”

“Exactly. Not scientific at all. So many variables.”

“So that’s your issue,” he says with a laugh, setting the drinks he’s holding on the table and taking a seat next to her. “The non-scientific research method.”

“I just mean,” Clarke begins, sort of vaguely aware that she’s taking this all a bit too seriously, “if she really wanted an honest answer, she should’ve done like… an interrogation room, where the mirror is actually a window, and I’m not in the room, so you don’t know I can hear your answer. Or something.”

The guy smiles. “Of course, how could she not have thought of that? Just grab the nearest, empty interrogation room-”

She glares. “I’m not saying she had to use that specific idea, I’m just saying-”

“I think you’re taking it too seriously,” he says.

“Yeah, well, that’s sort of my thing,” Clarke says.

The guy looks at her, considering. “I’m Bellamy,” he says finally.

They don’t hook up. Much to Raven’s frustration and Clarke’s chagrin, they just _talk_ for hours, exchange numbers, and then take separate ubers home. She kisses his cheek goodbye, and that’s about as intimate as it gets.

“I can’t believe I handed you that guy on a fucking _platter_ ,” Raven says the next morning over coffee, “and you did _nothing_. I talked to his friend for hours just to give you privacy.”

“Come on, Miller’s cool,” Clarke says, though she spent thirty minutes discussing Hogwarts Houses with Bellamy last night, so she’s not sure she gets to dictate what is and isn’t ‘cool’.

“Yeah, and not into women, so I sacrificed an opportunity to get laid just so you could determinedly _not get laid_.”

“It’s better this way,” Clarke says, hunched over the coffee pot. “He’s cool, and he has the same opinions about _Atlanta_ as me. I wouldn’t know all that if we’d just fucked.”

“Yeah, god forbid you ever deign to fuck somebody.”

“I’m serious,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. “I’m glad nothing happened, honestly.”

She almost believes it.

~ ~ ~

“So wait,” Monty says, “Raven just pulled him over and straight up asked if he thought Clarke was hot?”

It’s been about six months since that night, and yet it’s still plaguing Clarke’s life. She, Monty, Raven, Miller, Jasper, Bellamy, and _Murphy_ , weirdly, are having dinner to celebrate Monty getting his master’s, but the conversation has quickly devolved into… this. Because of course it has.

“It sounds stupid when you remove it from its context,” Raven says.

“It’s worse with context, believe me,” Clarke says. She might not be entirely over the humiliation of that night.

“No, I’d say it’s about the same,” Bellamy says with a smirk.

“And how did Bellamy fuck it up so bad that it didn’t end in you two hooking up?” Murphy asks.

“I didn’t fuck it up,” Bellamy argues. “We had a good conversation.”

“And apparently that’s worth ditching your best friend and giving some random my drink,” Miller says darkly, a bitterness in his eyes that suggests he has neither forgiven nor forgotten this transgression. “No offence, Clarke.”

“None taken,” Clarke says drily.

“And that’s how you met Raven, and then Monty, by proxy,” Bellamy says. “Basically, I’m the reason you’re in a happy relationship, so. You’re welcome.”

Miller snorts. “So you ditched me to talk to a hot girl out of the _goodness of your heart-_ ”

“Do you guys really not know this story yet,” Clarke interrupts, “because I feel like it’s burned into my brain.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, if it bothers you,” Monty says.

“No, I - it’s just not that good a story,” Clarke says, a little flustered. Bellamy drops his hand to her knee under the table, rubs it a little. She fights the shiver threatening to roll down her spine. She’s been getting better at dealing with these little touches that are now apparently a part of their friendship, but - she’s not quite there yet.

“I disagree, but we can drop it,” Raven says.

Clarke drops her head to the table. “Just tell it,” she says, words muffled by her napkin, “and then we’re never talking about it again. Ever.”

“Clarke’s ex was a dick, she was feeling shit, I asked Bellamy if she was hot to try and cheer her up,” Raven says.

“That… doesn’t strike me as an excellent plan,” Monty says, frowning.

“It made sense at the time,” Raven says, waving him off.

“So, what did Bellamy say?” Jasper asks, eyes wide and eager.

“What do you think,” Miller snorts.

“Did he say no? To like, lampshade his boner?” Murphy asks.

“That’s not what lampshading is,” Monty says.

“I’m going to murder all of you,” Bellamy says.

“I’ll help,” Clarke offers. His hand is still on her knee. “I know science-y shit that can break down the bodies, they won’t leave a trace.”

“Like _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ ,” Bellamy says.

“Or like a piece of media from _this_ century, maybe,” Miller counters, and Bellamy scowls at him.

“Maybe after you dispose of our bodies, you can both tell each other how hot you are,” Jasper says brightly. “Equality.”

~ ~ ~

Despite all her efforts to bury the story right next to her burgeoning feelings for Bellamy, Clarke ends up being the one to rehash the whole fucking saga, and all because she can’t stop herself from snooping on Lexa’s social media.

“I need a favour,” she says as she collapses, exhausted, onto Bellamy’s couch. They’re having one of their Netflix date-that’s-not-a-dates, a tradition they’ve only recently started up - it’s Clarke’s pick tonight, so they’re watching _The Devil Wears Prada_ , because Bellamy’s never seen it and they’re both massively attracted to Anne Hathaway, like any sane person who’s attracted to women would be.

“I’m not helping you prank Murphy again,” he says. “My eyebrows have only just grown back properly.”

“Not that,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes, because what kind of person doesn’t wear goggles whilst handling explosives? “I need you to be my date.”

He tenses next to her momentarily. “Uh - okay. For what?”

“I have to attend this stupid gala thing next week because my mom’s being honoured by the fucking mayor,” Clarke starts, and Bellamy laughs.

“God, that is such a uniquely Clarke Griffin sentence,” he says, and she hits him lightly.

“Shut up. Anyway, Lexa’s back in town, and she just posted on Instagram that she’s coming, I guess ‘cause her family’s, like, NYC royalty, and she’s bringing her stupid yoga instructor girlfriend-”

“I swear to god, one of these days I’m just gonna delete that app off your phone.”

“- anyway, I _really_ don’t want to go alone, and you’re my hottest friend,” she says.

“Raven,” he points out.

“My hottest friend who Lexa doesn’t know,” Clarke says. “She’d never believe Raven and I were together. Plus, Raven’s sort of seeing Gina, and I don’t think they’re far enough into the relationship to potentially jeopardize it. Gina might end up thinking I’m secretly in love with Raven or something.”

“... Right.”

“Anyway, I think you and Raven are probably equals on the hotness scale,” Clarke says, aware that she’s definitely rambling now. “And you have the advantage because I’ve never seen you puke in a Chipotle dumpster.”

“There’s still time,” he says.

“Anyway. Will you come with me? I’ll buy you dinner and everything.”

“Yeah, okay, you sold me with the free meal,” Bellamy says after a brief pause.

“Of course I did.”

So she turns her attention to the screen and does not think about his hand two inches away from hers.

~ ~ ~

The event is fancy enough to warrant a small amount of effort, which prompts a minor panic on Clarke’s part. It’s easy for Bellamy, he has exactly one tux - purchased for the occasion of his sister’s wedding and rarely worn since - and it fits him well. Clarke has a (slightly irrational) hatred of formal wear, and as a result, she finds herself facing a dress shortage - she owns a few, but they’re all either too casual or too old, and thus a little small, and making that discovery just compounds on the anxiety she was already feeling at having to face Lexa for the first time in almost a year.

Almost on the verge of tears, she calls Raven, who pulls through - as always - and hightails it to Clarke’s apartment with a selection of dresses from both her and Gina’s closets.

“Hey,” Raven says, during a particularly vulnerable moment as they’re desperately trying to find the right dress. “You’re a hot ass bitch. And clothes are meant to serve _you_ , not the other way around. Okay?”

“Yep,” Clarke says, tight and short because she’s scared of letting her voice get broken and watery. She is _not_ going to cry over this. No fucking way.

They settle on a tight burgundy dress that comes down to just under Clarke’s knees. Admittedly, it makes her cleavage look awesome, but it’s a little more form-fitting than she’d prefer. Regardless, it’s the best choice, so she thanks Raven, waves her off, and does the quickest makeup job she can manage, matching her lipstick to the dress, before Bellamy’s buzzing at her intercom. She grabs her phone, throws a leather jacket on, just to have at least _one_ item she’s comfortable with, and meets him downstairs, because, predictably, they’re already running late.

He looks hot, obviously, in a way that shocks her each time she sees him in the tux, but she doesn’t comment on it, figures she’s already mentioned how attractive she finds him too many times in the last week. His eyes seem to darken a little when he sees her, but she tells herself it’s just a trick of the evening light and they get in the Uber that’s waiting by the door.

“You look good,” he says once they’re in the back, all strapped in. Clarke smiles tightly, doesn’t trust herself to give a verbal response, and Bellamy frowns a little, but says nothing, just grabs her hand. Maybe he figures it’s just nerves - which, to be fair, it sort of is.

When they pull up at the event, there’s a literal red carpet that, at Abby’s request, they actually have to pose for, and the litany of flashing cameras does nothing to soothe Clarke’s already frayed nerves, to say nothing of the hand Bellamy has wrapped around her waist. Once they’re inside, she grabs a drink from the first tray that passes them and does her best to at least chug it gently.

“Hey, you okay?” Bellamy says in her ear, voice low in a way that makes her breath a little shallow.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just hate these things. And I hate this fucking dress.”

“That makes one of us,” Bellamy mutters, quiet in a way that makes her think maybe he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Clarke actually _audibly_ gulps, and thankfully, a random family friend chooses that moment to come up and start chattering about her mother, so Clarke dutifully takes on the role of the doting daughter. By all appearances, Bellamy is the equally doting boyfriend, always a hand at her waist, a finger delicately brushing hair from her face, a permanent smile etched onto his face. He’s better at this than she would’ve expected, given the fact that his hatred for these kind of events rivals her own. Clarke almost manages to lose herself in the night, until she spots Lexa and her impossibly toned girlfriend across the room talking to the governor of New York and the panic sets in again.

“Oh, god,” she says into her drink - it’s only her second of the night, because as much as she wants to, this isn’t really an appropriate forum to get hammered - and Bellamy looks at her, concerned. He follows her gaze to where Lexa stands, and his face immediately hardens.

“I don’t like her,” he says decidedly, turning back to face Clarke.

“You don’t know her,” she points out.

“I know enough,” he says. “Like that she’s clinically blind.”

“Wow, that’s pretty judgemental,” she says, corner of her mouth turning up despite everything. “She can’t help being visually impaired.”

“Yeah, well she _can_ help being a-”

“Clarke.”

She and Bellamy turn, and of _course_ it’s Lexa.

“Hi,” Clarke says, twisting her mouth into what she hopes is a smile.

“Hello,” Lexa says. She looks at Bellamy for a moment but offers no greeting, and that alone floods Clarke with irritation.

“This is Bellamy, my boyfriend,” she says, barely stumbling over the words. Bellamy outstretches his hand and Lexa takes it, gives it a short, sharp shake.

“Nice to meet you,” Lexa says. Neither her expression or tone have shifted an inch yet. “My girlfriend, Costia, is here too, but she’s gone to the bathroom. I’ll have to introduce you later.”

“That would be lovely,” Clarke says, like she doesn’t already know Costia’s natal chart and kindergarten alma mater. Lexa’s looking her up and down, somewhat clinically, and Clarke starts praying for maybe the first time in her life to any and all deities that might be listening, begging for a way out of this encounter.

“You look well,” Lexa says. The words are very carefully selected.

“Thank you, so do you,” Clarke says, sort of on autopilot. “How’s L.A?”

Lexa nods. “Great. It’s… vibrant, you know. Everyone’s so full of life.”

Next to her, Bellamy shifts. He hates L.A.

“I’m sure,” Clarke says. “Lots of hiking, I’m sure you’re enjoying that.”

“Very much,” Lexa says. “It’s very motivating to be around such disciplined people.”

Clarke’s throat goes dry. That fucking word.

“I’m sure,” she says. _Change the subject, for the love of god._

“An old colleague of Costia’s runs a pilates class in your area,” Lexa says before Clarke can try. “It’s supposed to be very... accommodating.”

“Accommodating?” Bellamy questions. His hand, splayed on Clarke’s back, is tense and firm, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress.

“You know,” Lexa says. “People have different abilities, different levels of fitness. Although it’s not an excuse for laziness.” She pauses, looking at him. “I’m sure you know, you look like you’re in shape.”

Clarke almost laughs, remembering that thought she’d had the first night she met Bellamy. She should have just introduced them back then.

“Visual indicators of physical fitness and health aren’t always accurate,” Bellamy says. Clarke’s amazed he’s getting words out, his teeth are so clenched. “But, you know. Clarke and I find ways to break a sweat.”

Clarke flushes a little, tucks her face into Bellamy’s neck. His arm wraps around her, tightens.

Lexa purses her lips. “Well. Good for you then. I should go find Costia.”

“You do that,” Bellamy says, and she’s gone.

“Jesus,” Clarke says.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought if I got explicit, it might make her leave.”

“Good job,” she says. Her voice cracks a little, betraying her, and she _hates_ it. Bellamy turns to face her, concern etched into his features, and his hands come up to gently cup her face.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Don’t,” she says, before he can start. “I don’t need you to say - whatever you were going to, okay, I don’t need a pep talk.”

“Clarke,” he says, but she’s pulling away and walking off, doing her best to keep her features neutral as she makes her way through the crowd and out the door of the main hall. She finds the coat room by some miracle, fully intending to just grab her jacket and leave, but the second she’s behind closed doors, her eyes prick with tears and it’s all she can do not to ruin her makeup.

The coat room door opens and closes again behind her, because of course Bellamy’s followed her, how could she have expected anything different.

“Hey,” he says carefully, and when she breathes in, it’s a shudder, shallow in her chest, and he’s in front of her before she can respond. “Hey, babe. Talk to me.”

Clarke swallows thickly, blinking up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t,” she tries, and has to clear her throat a couple times before she can speak again. “I don’t want to _care_ , y’know? I hate that I do, I hate that she can make me feel like this after such a short conversation. I never even thought about this shit before her, and now-”

One of Bellamy’s hands tangles in her hair as he wraps the other arm around her, gentle but tight.

“She’s a fucking asshole, Clarke,” Bellamy says. “She should - god, she has some fucking nerve, pulling that bullshit. It’s so obviously a power play, seriously. She’s trying to regain ground because you’ve shown up here looking like fucking hell on wheels-”

Clarke laughs, the sound short and bitter and ugly, even to her own ears, and Bellamy stills. “Right.”

He pulls back, simmering with something. It feels like anger, almost. “Clarke.”

“I know I’m not - god, I don’t even want to be _talking_ about this, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. But like - fuck, I know what I look like, okay, I know I could be slimmer, I could go to the gym more-”

“ _Clarke_ ,” Bellamy says again, harder, louder. “God. Stop it. You’re literally, like -” he stops, takes his hand away from her to scrub it over his face. “I’ve been fucking hard all night because of this motherfucking dress, and you’re talking about needing to go to the fucking gym. It’s honestly just laughable.”

She looks at him, sighs. “I don’t need you to do this again. It was bad enough that first night.”

“I’m not doing anything for you, Clarke,” he says. “I’m - this is just _fact_ , okay, I didn’t purposely make myself hard to do you a favour.”

Clarke snorts, but she can feel the heat rushing to her cunt, just at the thought of it.

“That’d be impressive, though,” she says.

“Yeah, like the world’s most specific superpower.”

She wipes at her eyes.

“Seriously,” he says. “You’re fucking incredible. And _hot_. It’s just fact, honestly, but - how you feel about yourself, that’s not up to me, or Lexa, or anyone else. Nobody else gets to dictate that. Fuck her for thinking she gets to.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “I know.”

“Okay, cool,” Bellamy says, pushing one of her curls back. “So - are we leaving? What do you wanna do?”

She bites her lip, considers him. She’s not completely sure if he was just bluffing about his boner, but. She kind of wants to find out. Kind of _really_ wants to find out.

“Well,” she says, “it’d be impolite to just leave without taking care of your boner.” He sucks in a breath, eyes darkening. “Y’know, if I’m the one who caused the problem, I should help solve it, right?”

His mouth opens, just a little, and god, he’s so beautiful, tongue darting out to wet his lip.

“I mean, if you don’t want to,” she starts when he’s quiet for a little too long, but then surges forward to kiss her, right hand cradling her head. Their mouths find a rhythm together almost immediately, the way Clarke always knew they would, and his other arm comes around her waist, holding her to him tightly. He nips lightly at her bottom lip, and she gasps, opening his mouth and letting his tongue dip in to slide against hers. He growls a little and the sound reverberates through her body, sending another spike of heat surging through her body.

His mouth leaves hers, and she whines a little in protest until he starts peppering kisses in a trail across her jaw, down her neck, sucking her skin between his teeth until she keens, bringing her hands up to tug at his hair desperately.

“Knew you’d be like this,” he mutters against her neck, his breath cool against the patches of her neck now wet from his mouth. “So fuckin’ responsive, babe. You wet already?”

“Mmm,” she moans in response. “You - you’ve thought about me?”

He snorts, presses another kiss to her collarbone. “ _‘Have I thought-’_ jesus, of course I have, you’re the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Clarke. You’re all I fucking think about.”

“Me too,” she says, not sure why it feels so delicate, so vulnerable a statement when the evidence of his arousal is pressed hard against her as he whispers how much he wants her.

“Yeah?” he says, so awed, like he didn’t even think it possible.

“Uh-huh,” she says. His eyes are boring into hers, hard, the feeling so intense she can barely stand it, and then he’s kissing her again as his hands work the zipper of her dress down so she can shimmy out of it, still pressed against him. She helps him pull off his suit jacket, throwing it down next to the dress.

Bellamy pulls back to look at her, hands coming to rest at her waist, and she shifts uncomfortably and crosses her arms over her chest, despite herself, still feeling a little raw after everything.

“Don’t,” he says softly, gently pulling her arms away. “God, Clarke, you’re - I can’t believe you can’t see what I do.”

She flushes a little at the combination of his praise and her still-lingering self-consciousness.

“Door,” she says suddenly. “We need to lock the door.”

He curses, rushing over to the door to lock it, but he’s back in a flash, standing over her tall and dark and so fucking gorgeous it’s almost sinister. She tugs at his tie to bring his mouth back to hers, trying to distract both of them from her nerves, but he’s not having it, kissing her quickly and then pulling back again to bring his hands under her knees and hoist her up.

She squeals a little, clutching onto him as he walks them over to the wall, rests her back against it gently and takes a wide stance to support her better.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, kissing underneath her jaw again. She sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “God, that motherfucking dress.”

She laughs, a little breathless. “You’re really a fan, huh?”

“I’ve never seen you in anything like that before,” he says. “I thought I was gonna have to leave, or go jerk off in the bathroom or something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Clarke says, and he lets one of her legs down, keeps the other hoisted and locked around his hips. “What did you -” She clears her throat, unsure of whether to ask this or not, whether she’s going to seem too needy. “What did you like about it? The dress?”

He looks at her, eyes searching, and she holds his gaze, determined. She wants to know. She wants to hear him.

“Fuck, everything,” he says finally, hands coming up to grope her breasts. “Your ass, your _tits_ \- I could write a goddamn sonnet for these, babe.” Clarke laughs, but the sound is lost in a moan as he pushes down the cup of her bra and gets his hands on her bare skin. She feels the straps of the thing sliding down her shoulders. “Your waist, the curve of you… Lexa has no clue what she’s talking about. You’re the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.” One of his hands leaves her chest, comes up to cup her face again. “I want to worship you, Clarke.”

“Yeah?” Clarke says, breathless, chest heaving against him.

He hums his assent, pulling her forward gently, and she lets her back come off the wall so he can reach around to undo the clasp of her bra. She tugs impatiently at his dress shirt, pulling the hem from where it’s tucked under his pants and scrambling to undo the buttons. His hands fly up to help her, and then to pull his shirt off, but they’re back on her in an instant, tugging off what remains of her bra so she stands in just her heels and underwear, one leg still hooked onto his hip.

“Jesus, you’re gorgeous,” he mutters, like it’s a prayer, an oath. “You’re gonna ruin me, babe.”

“You ruined me already,” Clarke points out, bringing one of his hands to her underwear so he can feel the evidence. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and drops his head to her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he says, the word slightly muffled as his fingers dip under the fabric, just barely grazing her cunt. “God, I’m - you’re so _wet_.”

One of his fingers brushes a little firmer against the peak of her, and she moans, legs already shaking with anticipation. He kisses her again, and she gets lost in the feel of it, tugs at his hair, bites at his lip tenderly until he’s breathing as raw and ragged as she is. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown out, black bleeding into the barest hint of brown, and she thinks, sort of inchoately, that this might be all she wants, all she needs for the rest of her life.

Before Clarke can even think about what that means, he’s on his knees in front of her, pulling down her underwear and leaving them to pool at her heels. He presses a kiss to her knee, freeing her foot from the confines of the forgotten fabric so he can bring her leg up to hook over his shoulder, opening her up to him completely.

His breath fans out, hits her, and even just the _ghost_ of him, the prospect of his mouth is enough to pierce right through her, start a shudder that rolls from the apex of of her back down the core of her. When she looks down, he’s staring, and the image of it would be sweet, if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whines, and he glances up at her, smirks.

“Yeah, gorgeous?” he says. “You need something?”

“ _Please_ ,” she says, more of a prayer than a request.

“Okay,” he says simply, and she’s surprised, for a moment - she thought he was gonna make her work for it,  _beg_ for it, and honestly, she was ready to - until suddenly his mouth is on her, tongue lashing over her clit. A sound, almost inhuman, escapes her involuntarily and her hand flies to his hair, pushes and pulls at it to the rhythm of his mouth. It’s all she can do not to collapse when his tongue pushes inside her, curls up, swirls around.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she chants. She doesn’t know how to _say_ anything else.

One of his hands reaches up to grope at her breast again, the other joining his mouth, the forefinger replacing his tongue to stretch further, deeper into her.

“Another,” she manages to gasp out, because it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, there’s not enough of him, he’s _too far away_ somehow. He obliges, adds another digit while his mouth closes around her clit, sucks with varying pressure until her cunt is literally pulsating, building itself up to its own crescendo.

“Oh, my god,” Clarke pushes out through clenched teeth, holding tight to Bellamy’s hair to keep her steady, pressing her back into the wall so hard she’s sure they’ll break through any second, out into the hallway in front of all the senators. “Bellamy, I’m gonna -”

She cuts herself off with a whimper, and he hums his assent into her, barely even taking a breath as he picks up his pace, fingers pumping deeper, quicker. Her words are just a stream of _jesusfuckBellamyBellamyBellamy_ , her mouth fitting around the word and then breaking off as the crescendo builds and crashes, sweeping through her warm and bright and hot. He pulls her through it, still fucking into her until she’s squirming; only then does he relent, letting her leg down and coming to stand, one braced between hers to keep her upright. His mouth is shining and wet and she kind of wants to kiss him, see how the taste of the two of them mingles, so she leans forward ever so slightly, both of them still breathless, and kisses him long and lingering.

“God,” Bellamy says when they break apart, closing his eyes.

“That’s my line,” Clarke says. He opens his eyes, still so earnest, so warm.

“You were so fucking gorgeous,” he says. “Feeling you come, _watching_ you."

She bites her lip, toys with an idea.

“I wanna see you, now,” she says. She flips them, drops to her knees - a helpful move anyway, because her legs were about to give out - and glances up at Bellamy, watches him visibly gulp, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

“You don’t have to,” he starts.

“I want to,” she says, “if you’ll let me.”

His head falls back against the wall and he laughs a little, though it’s choked with want and sort of hysterical.

“S’that a yes?”

He looks down at her, and she notices, all of a sudden, how beautiful his eyes are, how deep and searching they are; how even now, as her hand’s moving to undo his belt, there’s something so loving, so tender.

“Yeah,” he says, the word gentle, careful. He helps her pull down his suit pants, lets them pool at his feet as she reaches into his boxers, feels the weight of him in her palm. His mouth stretches into a silent _ah_ when she takes out his cock, holding it tight and gentle.

Clarke does intend to build it up, really, but the second she sees it, all she’s thinking about is how he’s going to look coming undone, about the sounds she might pull from him tonight, and then she’s all in, mouth closing around him. He gasps sharply as she swirls her tongue around the head, moves her other hand so it’s cupping his balls.

“ _Christ_ , you’re unreal,” Bellamy’s saying. “So good to me, babe, you’re so good to me.”

She takes him as fully as possible into her mouth, lets him tap at the back of her throat and tries to suppress a gag, wants to envelop as much of him as she can. She can’t fight her reflex entirely, and when she chokes a little, throat spasming around him, he groans, hips bucking a little until he forcibly stills himself. She makes a sound of protest at that, grabs at his ass with one of her hands and opens her mouth even more, tongue peeking out between his cock and her bottom lip, seeing if he’ll get the hint.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, “you want me to fuck your face, huh? You want that, babe? To choke on my cock?”

She moans around him, lets her tongue vibrate, and his hand flies to her hair, twists and tugs at it. He thrusts, just a little, and she moves with him, accommodates his movement as he slowly finds a rhythm, finds a sweet place between the rough and the dirty that works perfect for both of them.

“Look at that,” he says, and when she glances up, his eyes are locked on her. “Your lipstick all over. So messy, sweetheart, so dirty, huh? Does anyone out there know how dirty you are?”

He’s a lot more creative with dirty talk than her, she notices. She should’ve guessed he’d be like that, so eager to run his mouth, get both of them worked up with just his command of words, the poetry of his own vulgarity.

His hips buck again, cock sliding deeper this time. Clarke gags again, just a little, and it all goes right to her clit - she’s buzzing again, buzzing for that burn, that ache. Her hands have dropped away from his cock as she lets him use her mouth, do with it what he will, so she brings one to her breast to tug at her nipple, and the other to her cunt, fingers sliding against herself sweetly, perfectly.

“Are you fucking yourself now?” Bellamy asks, delighted. She just moans her answer, looks at him again, blinks slow. His hands are cupping her face gently, holding her head still while he presses in and out, soft and then rough, slow until he snaps occasionally, thrusts in deep. “Yeah, that’s it, babe. You can give me another, can’t you? Make yourself come while I’m fucking your face?”

She nods, as best she can around his cock, and deepens her strokes, dips inside each time before coming back up to her clit again, over and over until she can’t really see or think, the feel of it all just so much, so overwhelming she only registers parts of Bellamy’s run-on dirty talk, has to focus on breathing through her nose and not coming too quick.

“So perfect, babe, so fucking perfect… can’t _believe_ I get to feel your mouth around me, can’t believe I’m this lucky… you gonna come? You gonna come with me?”

Clarke moans again, and his hips stutter - he shifts, as if trying to retract, but she chases the movement, keeps her mouth on his cock so she can swallow. He swears, thrusts getting faster, more erratic, and just as Clarke’s fingers start to cramp up, she feels herself crash again, a little gentler this time but just as sweet, made even sweeter as Bellamy joins her, cock pulsing in her mouth as he comes, groaning low and deep.

She breathes through it, keeps her fingers on her cunt until it’s too much again, and as she’s pulling them away, she feels Bellamy gently push her mouth back and off him, tugging her up to stand so he can kiss her, long and languid. She sighs into his mouth, body still spasming with aftershocks, throat undulating after the stretch of being fucked.

They pull back eventually, after god knows how long, and he’s still looking at her with such adoration, such tenderness. She almost shies away from it, but she can’t bear not to look at him, feels that deep-rooted affection so wholly inside herself now that she won’t even think of trying to press it down again.

“I kind of ruined your makeup,” he says, sounding genuinely remorseful.

Clarke laughs. “I don’t care.”

“And I think we missed your mom’s speech,” Bellamy says.

“She won’t notice,” she says. She presses her forehead against his, and they breathe in and out of each other for a moment.

“Is this, uh,” Bellamy starts, stops, shuts his eyes. Clarke looks at him, questioning. “This isn’t it, right? ‘Cause I - I don’t just want - I mean, it was good, fucking _incredible_ , but I-”

“No,” Clarke says, huffing a laugh, and there’s a split second’s worth of shocked hurt in his eyes before she scrambles to clarify: “This isn’t it. Definitely not. I want more than that. I want _you_.”

Bellamy breathes out, grins. “Fuck, okay. Good. Me too.”

“Okay,” she teases. “Glad we sorted that out.” She bites her lip. “We should probably get dressed before someone tries to get their coat, though.”

“Like we’re the first people to fuck in this coat room,” Bellamy says, but he’s already pushing off the wall, tugging up his underwear.

Clarke scavenges for her clothes, finds them strewn around the room in an almost comical fashion. Her phone, abandoned somewhere along the line, is underneath a coat rack, and once Bellamy’s helped her zip her dress back up, she pulls up the camera app to check her face and laughs at the sight.

Her lipstick is, predictably, smeared all around her lips, and her eyeliner has started to bleed down from her waterline, Evanescence-style. Her hair is messy, curls askew. Somehow, though, she feels good, powerful. She almost wants to just walk out there like this, but she can’t quite bring herself to come down on her mother like that - it’s Abby’s night, after all.

Instead, Clarke snaps a couple photos for future reference, and when she catches Bellamy watching her, a wry smile on his lips, she pokes her tongue out. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just - you’re beautiful.”

She smiles, closes her phone with a click.

“Damn right,” she says.


End file.
